The result is an exuberant, almost joyful record brimming with sly cynicism and a newfound fondness for whoa-oh refrains and handclaps.

These tracks are lifeless, and the multitude of sounds turns to mud, eventually eating itself.

Repo runs out of ideas so quickly it starts to appropriate its own ideas.

Vs. Children is a pleasant but uncaptivating album, and I’m inclined to believe, especially when confronted by his album’s deliriously enchanting highlights, that Ashworth is spreading himself a little thin at his current pace.

Helena Costas and Danger Mouse combine the former’s folk pop proclivities with the latter’s penchant for hip-hop and psychedelia, and the results are mostly awkward and cumbersome.

As enjoyable as it can be, Telekinesis! is only good enough to make you wish it were better.

Swift hasn’t put out a bad record yet, but The Atlantic Ocean is his most solid effort yet, his best attempt at managing the dark-lit record store in his head.

Its complete lack of anything unique just reeks of someone in the background, someone with a suit and a cigar, shaking hands with these fellows and telling them they’re “gonna blow up.”

It’s gimmicky on some level, and maybe formally confined, but the absurdity of these songs can’t mask their joy and evident catharsis.

From most bands, half of a great record would be an incredible accomplishment, but we’ve heard so much better from them.

Living Thing sits uneasily in some sort of odd pop no-man’s-land: it’s not quite smart nor fully-realized enough for the sad-sack indie set, and it’s too despairing and insightful for the pop set.

Juxtaposing foley noises, drum loops, and auxiliary click-clacking against minimalist, percussive synth lines and enormous swells of energy, the album clearly has a sonic template and a cohesion easily identifiable within the first three tracks.

Itâ??s the hyper-distinguishable leap from idiosyncratic-but-lovable to just-plain-lovable that makes Bromst--and Danny Boy himself--of increased import.

The album is still frequently guilty of some of the shortcomings that have plagued the band since "Picaresque."

Junior is about as sturdy as a disco album can be, which is a remarkable achievement itself. One deliberately-paced decade in and Royksopp are showing no signs of creative fatigue or self-cannibalization.

Crack the Skye has the feel of a classic metal album, steeped in impressive musicianship and stylized construction; it’s the kind of album you can repeatedly rock out to without ever feeling the desire to skip even one moment of its sprawling majesty.

The songs are neither here nor there, which, to me, is exactly what a cover should be. That the men and woman behind Yo La Tengo have created yet another fine album after 25 years of existence and 11 full-lengths is outstanding.

Essentially, Enemy Mine is a showcase for the talent of the three artists involved. But it lacks the conviction of Frog Eyes. It lacks the focus of Sunset Rubdown.

It’s a thoroughly digestible record, then, freed from the downstroke neuroses that basically defined Hot Snakes or the labyrinthine catharsiscore mounted and milked by Jehu.

Born Like This is simply not as forward-thinking as his best works.

The recording perfectly reflects the aesthetic of the world Jay has imagined, and both Calvin Johnson and Bob Schwenkler deserve praise for accurately materializing Slow Dance’s wintry, yet robust landscape.

Frequently labeled as a lecherous rogue or public provocateur, Gainsbourg is also one of the most important artists of the 20th century, and this masterpiece is the proof.

While The Floodlight Collective offers a great set of songs, I’d still like to see Pundt deliver a more idiosyncratic album through which we can truly hear him expose himself.

Harlem Shakes are in their early days and still sound like they are trying a little too hard; it’s an absolutely excusable quality in a young band, if not always endearing. Harlem Shakes have plenty to be proud of; they’ve also got even more to prove the next time around.

If the man’s curious oeuvre hasn’t already provided reason enough to pay attention, it’s doubtful Beware will convert anyone to the fold. But for those already attuned to Oldham’s songcraft, Beware is a rich and fulfilling work from a man who seems to have a paranormal grasp on human nature, with all the sensuality, God-fearing, tummy-rubbing and head-scratching that implies.

I don’t think there’s any doubt Wavvves consistently delivers wonderful ideas, and those keeping a close watch on the West Coast underground will have to continue to include this kid in their daily musings until he actually provides material worth the blog-storm.

Sixteen tracks make for a long album, but the set works remarkably, with the Boys’ excursions into Tex-Mex pop and blues rarely even pushing the three-minute mark.

Tomorrow Today sees Seeland headed in the right direction with solid, well-constructed songs, but the group should consider shaking themselves out of their languid state before releasing another album.